


Unopened

by abluevixen (knightofbows)



Series: | January 2016 Prompt Challenge | [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, F/F, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-18
Updated: 2016-02-18
Packaged: 2018-05-21 10:55:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6048967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightofbows/pseuds/abluevixen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New Years is different for Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unopened

There are _rules_ to Christmas decorating, okay? And Stiles was firm in them. The tree couldn’t go up until *after* Thanksgiving—he always put his up the day after, with just the skirt so his floor wouldn’t be covered in pine needles; besides, decorating the tree was a tradition in and of itself—and the absolute latest it can remain lit and trimmed is New Year’s Day. That’s it. That’s the lifespan and lifecycle of a Christmas tree. End of story.

Stiles stifled a yawn, and shuffled around his apartment with a trash bag in tow. From this flat surface or that, he used broad sweeps of his arm to knock everything from Solo cups to half-eaten cupcakes into the bag. Sleep-rumpled and hung over, he blearily worked away the evidence of a party well partied.

Friends, old and new, and friends of friends had filled the space from wall to wall. Lydia had brought her latest boyfriend, Allison and Isaac had flown in from France, Scott had Kira over, of course. Even Malia had made an appearance, her new girlfriend in tow.

And Stiles, well, Stiles held out. He always held out. Even two years after college graduation, and nearly seven since he left Beacon Hills, he still held out

With glasses raised, they pulled sweethearts close during the final countdown, shouting the numbers from ten to Happy New Year, to kisses and toasts.  Stiles couldn’t recall if he’d kissed anyone at midnight or if he’d lead anyone down the hall and into his bedroom, but he’d woken up alone and smelling like his own cologne and stale alcohol. So he probably rang in the new year solo.

He didn’t mind. Not really.

The first few years after leaving Beacon Hills, he’d had flings; this pretty boy or that pretty girl on his arm and, later, in his bed. He’d grown bored of it quickly. The relationships never lasted long, never set roots deep enough in his heart to withstand the battering storm of his doubt and, unfortunately, unflinching hope. Besides, once he realized he was holding out, he’d simply given in to it.

Scott’s bedroom door was closed, most likely locked, which left Stiles to clean up the mess of the party. Delicate werewolf sensibilities were easily offended when suffering a wolfsbane liquor hangover, but stale beer and leftover snacks had never bothered Stiles. This year, the apartment was blissfully vomit free, so clean up was a breeze.

After setting two full black trash bags near the door—Scott could take those to the dumpster—Stiles deemed the apartment clean, and left the vacuuming for later. He’d vacuum glitter and sequins from the carpet for days, but it had been worth it for the amazing time they’d had. The tree was the last bit that needed tending; and despite the early hour and the monotony of removing hooks and packing away ornaments, the repetition of the action, how ritualistic the action itself was, soothed Stiles. It busied his hands and quieted his mind, distracted him from the ache in his head from too much alcohol and the ache in his chest from too much time alone.

Sometimes Stiles wondered why he was still holding out.

It had only been the summer. One measly summer. One summer between them, and then what? Some strange not-friendship, but allies. Some weird almost-exes, but still companions. He’d been young—seventeen—and naïve and so _so_ gone, there was no turning back. Years had passed. He should be over it. Everyone else was from that time.

Except they weren’t.

Allison was still with Isaac.

Scott was still with Kira.

Lydia still kept in touch with Jackson and Aiden—sometimes she hooked up with them.

Stiles…Stiles would have kept in touch over the years, but he couldn’t. There had been no note. No call. No text. No address. The few times Stiles tried calling, he left voicemails. Eventually the number was disconnected.

Of the options available to him, he’d much rather suffer loneliness and _wait_. There would be no forever, there would be no always. Not with anyone he met here, not with anyone he’d met in college, not with anyone he worked with. And if his waiting suddenly ended? If who he held out for suddenly walked through the door, he didn’t want anything to hold him back. He didn’t want to postpone going forward for a proper break up with some placeholder or the tying of loose ends with a casual hook-up.

No, if Derek Hale wandered back in Stiles’ life, Stiles wanted him then and there and forever.

The ornaments were safely tucked away in their egg-carton holders, their years-old bubble wrap taped in place. Stiles stacked them neatly in the cardboard box—his hastily scrawled ‘ORNAMENTS’ a series of jagged lines in Sharpie—and carried them, and all the other boxed decorations to the front door. Scott could put them in their assigned upstairs storage when he woke up. After taking the trash out, of course.

“Crap,” Stiles muttered, returning to the tree. He’d forgotten the skirt. He always forgets the skirt! “Every. Freakin’. Year.” Stiles knelt down beside the dying fir and ducked under its drooping branches to untie the bow holding the skirt’s shape. Dead needles fell like rain over his shoulders and in his hair, because the bow was tucked in the very back corner and he couldn’t quite reach it. A snag and a yank, and Stiles pulled the whole thing aside.

Then stopped.

A brown package, neatly wrapped with bow of simple twine.

 _Must have slipped under the skirt_ , Stiles thought. Their tree had been packed full of presents for friends and family, from friends and family, for each other—gifts had spilled out of their designated space beneath the tree and into the greater part of their living room. Stiles had been half tempted to let Scott open a few just to get them out of the way.

In the bottom right quarter of the package, written in a script just as simple as the packaging, read, “To Stiles.” No sender.

Stiles didn’t need a sender, though; he recognized the handwriting. He’d recognize that handwriting anywhere in any universe. It jotted notes on the sides of maps, left messages on Post-Its, penciled thoughts in the margins of poetry books, and spelled the letters of ‘I love you,’ ‘I need you,’ and ‘Don’t leave’ in his skin just as surely as open-mouthed kisses and stifled moans had. Stiles supposed he wasn’t meant to figure out the last part, the spelling part, but he knew. Of course he knew.

“Scott?” Stiles called out into the quiet apartment. He wasn’t particularly fond of the hysterical lilt to his voice, but his hands were shaking as they held the package. He scrambled to his feet and padded down the hall to bang on his door. “Scott!!”

But he didn’t get the chance to.

Just as he rounded the corner to march down the hallway, a banging—similar to how Stiles intended to slam his fist against Scott’s door—resounded through the apartment from the front door.

Stiles skidded to a halt, socked feet sliding on the hardwood of the hallway. Maybe he hesitated, standing there staring incredulously at the front door, for too long. Another series of knocks came, but whether they were louder or not, Stiles couldn’t tell. He could hardly hear anything over his own thundering heart.

Finally, after some undetermined amount of time, Stiles regained his failing balance and approached the front door. Cautiously, as if whatever lurked on the other side could burst through the meager barrier at any moment. It wasn’t entirely unfounded, given how many times Derek had been attacked in his own home back when the Nemeton was hailing all sorts of supernatural chaos to their tiny town.

Stiles opened the door between one in another series of knocks and the next.

When the raised hand lowered, Stiles first focused on a pair of inquisitive eyebrows and imploring, iridescent eyes. Then his gaze trailed down the cheekbones he’d graze with a thumb, the familiar angled jaw he’d grab and move for the best kiss, the carefully tended almost-beard he’d drag his nails through if he was feeling particularly playful.

“Derek…?”

His shoulders, not nearly as muscled or rounded as they’d been when he was an Alpha, shrugged, pulling the soft fabric of his Henley—jeez, he still wore them all these years later?—against the plains of his chest that Stiles never quite forgot. Derek’s smile was a tentative one, as if he couldn’t read every nuance of Stiles’ emotions, as if he _really_ expected Stiles to possibly reject him. It was a weak display, but maybe an honest one. Maybe Derek was just as shocked to find himself knocking on Stiles’ door as Stiles was to find it was Derek who knocked.

“Happy New Year,” Derek said softly, and even the rough edge of his voice was something Stiles’ body recognized as nice.

Stiles didn’t even bother to suppress the shiver that trembled down his spine. “Holy shit. _Derek!_ ” He dropped the package he forgot he held, careless of how it landed on the floor with a dull thud, to pull Derek into a hug and subsequently into the apartment.

Derek’s laughter was a light sound, weightless in sincerity. Stiles was vaguely aware of how Derek shut the apartment door behind him before returning the hug, but Stiles was too involved with relishing Derek’s familiar cologne, the warmth of his body pressed so close, the weight his strong arms so safe.

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” Stiles muttered, voice muffled by where he pressed his face against Derek’s neck. He gripped him tighter. “I never—”

“I wanted to start the new year right.” Derek nuzzled Stiles’ temple and pulled him a fraction closer. “I’d meant to—”

“Can I kiss you?” Stiles interrupted, pulling away enough to meet Derek’s gaze. “Please let me kiss you.”

Derek didn’t. But Derek kissed him instead.

The package previously abandoned under the tree remained abandoned at their feet. Unopened.

**Author's Note:**

> Part 2: [Prompt 26: The Tree is Still Up](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6253747)
> 
> You can also find me on tumblr: [foxtricks](http://foxtricks.tumblr.com/)


End file.
